by Pat Young
‘You’re an asshole, Curtis. Lucie’s the best thing that ever happened to you.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. You planning to help me up or what?’
On TV the NBC reporter was shouting hysterically into camera.
‘What is this crap?’ asked Curtis.
‘A plane hit the Twin Towers. Looks like the second one just collapsed.’
‘No shit! Let me see.’ Curtis pushed up on his arms, as if he were doing a press-up, then crashed back to the floor.
‘Dylan, I can’t move my legs.’
3
Lucie ran, stumbling and lurching blindly through the dust. Hoping she was heading north. Following the snowpeople up ahead till they melted into white and disappeared.
Her throat was on fire, her feet stinging.
She heard voices. Women crying. Men shouting. She followed the sound, her arms held out in front. A sinister game of Blind Man’s Buff.
As the dust began to clear, it felt easier to breathe and she could see sky again. Bright, beautiful, blue sky.
The Manhattan street looked more like Vail in mid-winter. White powder lay inches deep on car roofs and their parking meters wore peaked caps. The blacktop of the road was white, confusing as a negative photo.
Lucie’s bare feet kicked up mini-clouds around her ankles as she padded through the dust. She leaned against the first wall she came to and her legs gave way. She sank to the ground and wept.
‘Excuse me? Could you tell me what street this is?’
Lucie looked up at the woman and tried to speak, but her mouth felt like she’d swallowed a bag of flour. She coughed and tried again. On the third attempt she managed to whisper, ‘Sorry, no idea.’
‘Pardon me?’
It really hurt to talk but Lucie persevered. ‘Heading south. On Greenwich. Before.’ She gestured at the alpine scene, the unrecognisable cityscape.
‘Speak up, dear. I can’t hear you.’
Lucie swallowed hard, soothing her throat a little. ‘Don’t know.’
The woman shook her head impatiently, cascading a flurry of dust onto Lucie’s face.
She covered her mouth with her hand and asked through her fingers, ‘Ma’am?’ It came out like a croak. She lifted a handful of white powder. ‘What happened?’
‘The World Trade Center collapsed. Some kind of plane crash. Young man I spoke to, can you believe it, he sees a plane fly right smack into one of those towers. We’re standing talking, the two of us, just looking up at the sky and he’s telling me all about it. The tower’s been lit on fire, by the plane, I guess, and flames are burning out the walls and chunks of metal are falling to the ground and pieces of paper, all floating around and then suddenly the whole tower just kind of crumbles and disappears. Right there, while we’re watching. Can you credit that? People are screaming and yelling. Some of them shouting cuss words. Some of them saying “Oh my God,” over and over, like it’s a prayer. Then all of a sudden this dust is coming at us. A huge cloud of it, coming along the street. And people are going crazy. It was bedlam. I just ran and ran. Till I could run no more.’
When Lucie was sure the woman had stopped talking, she asked, ‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. Bless your heart for asking.’
Lucie leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes, considering her options. She was in the middle of the city, shoeless, covered in white dust and minus her bag. No bag meant no money. No money meant no way of getting home.
She pictured Curtis, flat out on the kitchen floor. She’d hit him pretty hard.
She should have checked on him. Instead of sneaking out in a panic in case he’d wake up and stop her getting to her interview.
He’d be fine. Of course he would. How many times had she seen him out of his face on drink and drugs?
Except this time was different.
One thing was certain. She didn’t want to be there when he woke up. If he recalled her hitting him with the skillet, he’d be mad as a bull with its balls in barbed wire, as he liked to put it.
It might be wise to lie low for a day or two, give him time to calm down a bit.
Maybe she could find some sort of refuge for the night. She had enough bruises to prove she was a victim of domestic violence. The black eye alone would be enough to cinch it.
Lucie looked up at the woman.
‘Ma’am? Would you know where I could find a Women’s Refuge?’
‘Oh my dear lord, no. I’m from out of town. I wouldn’t know anything about that kind of a place.’ The woman sounded offended.
Lucie took a deep breath which triggered a coughing fit. Spluttering and gasping for air, she rasped, ‘I’d never normally ask, but do you think you could give me ten dollars, please? I’d be happy to pay it back. It’s just that, I need to find somewhere to stay and I’ve lost my purse, my ID, everything.’
The woman looked down at the leather bag in Lucie’s lap and tucked her own tightly under her arm. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help one little bit. Sorry.’ She backed away, as if Lucie had become a danger to her. Lucie watched her grey figure disappear into the grimy air.
Lucie couldn’t sit here begging for money. She brushed the dust off the bag in her lap.
What harm would it do to take a few dollars? It wasn’t like she’d stolen the bag. And if the woman who owned it was dead … She let that thought slide away, not wanting to go there.
More and more white-dusted people were gathering, crowds milling around, though many continued to run past, pushing their way through. Lucie checked to see if anyone was watching her then flicked the catch and opened the bag.
She felt for a pocketbook or a wallet. Her fingers touched soft leather and she pulled her hand away as if she’d been scalded.
She couldn’t do it. She was no thief.
She tried to reason with herself. Don’t think of it as stealing. How about borrowing? She could take a note of the woman’s address and return the money later. Get it off Curtis, one way or another, when she got home and mail it. Nothing wrong with that.
She thrust her hand into the bag. Her fingers touched hard plastic. She pulled out an inhaler, like people take for asthma. Pictured the woman lying on the street, gasping for breath, suffocating, knowing she was going to die in the dust. If only Lucie had found her earlier, she could have helped, maybe saved her life.
Lucie couldn’t take this woman’s money. It would be like robbing a grave. She dropped the inhaler and searched the bag till she found a small, leather Filofax. The woman’s name, C J Gillespie, and her address, right here in Manhattan, were on the first page.
She could take the bag to the woman’s family, explain what happened and express her condolences. Maybe she could even tell them where to find their loved one’s body. Then, if they seemed kind, she’d ask to borrow the cab fare to a women’s shelter.
The dust was clearing from the air, and a bright blue sky was gradually reappearing above the tall buildings.
Lucie spotted a couple of cops running towards the World Trade Center, walkie-talkies in hand.
She scrambled to her feet and stepped into their path. ‘Officer, I’m lost.’ Her voice had all but disappeared again. ‘Can you help me, please?’
‘Lady, we don’t have time for this right now,’ said one and pushed by her. The other, a younger guy, stopped and asked how he could help.
‘Fitzgerald Square? It’s urgent.’ She held up the bag for him to see. Trying to save words. ‘Need to return this.’
The cop cut her off but gave her the directions she needed then sprinted to catch up with his partner.
Lucie walked as fast as she could through the dust. Every breath clogged her nose and coated her tongue. Her throat was closing again.
Progress was slow as people suddenly stopped, gasping for air, or stood around in dazed groups, but the further she got from WTC the clearer the air and the sidewalks became. Trees were dressed in white as if winter had come overnight and Christmas had moved to September. Not
hing made sense anymore.
All the apartment buildings looked the same to Lucie. Black marble, stainless steel and glass. She caught sight of her reflection and stood, staring. A pale, grey ghost of a woman stared back.
‘Miss Gillespie? That you?’
A tall, elderly man in a doorman’s uniform clasped his hands as if in prayer and looked skywards. ‘Thank God you’re safe, Miss Gillespie. I thought for sure you must be gone.’ He shook his head as if in wonderment.
When he took her hand and clasped it in both of his, Lucie felt tears threaten. This unexpected kindness from a complete stranger was too much for her. With his hand on her elbow, he guided her into a stylish lobby. The conditioned air tasted like the top of a mountain and Lucie took a greedy breath, deep into her lungs. It made her cough and choke.
‘Pretty hard to breathe out there, huh?’
Lucie nodded. Tried to control the spluttering.
‘Don’t you worry, Miss Gillespie. You’re safe now. Come on.’
Lucie let herself be led to the elevator. She looked at her benefactor as the doors opened and he stepped back and waited for her to go in first. She was unused to such courtesy and hesitated for a moment, noticing how his sleeve was covered in white dust from her clothes. She tried to wipe the man’s arm, whispering a silent ‘Sorry.’ Her throat had closed up again. Her voice was gone.
‘Oh, that’s nothing. Old Tommy will soon get spruced up once he sees you safely into your apartment.’
A robotic voice announced ‘Fortieth floor’ and the elevator came to a smooth stop. Lucie hadn’t felt it move, but when the doors slid silently open she could see a different hallway. A mass of fresh blooms stood tall in a glass vase. She could smell stocks and lilies.
‘Here we are. Home sweet home.’
Lucie fumbled for the bag and held it out to him but the doorman said, ‘No need, Miss Gillespie. I have my pass right here.’
He unlocked a pale wooden door which swung open without a sound.
‘Now, is there anything Tommy can do for you, Miss Gillespie?’
Lucie stood dumbfounded, her brain struggling to keep up. She shook her head. He’d got it wrong. She wasn’t Miss Gillespie.
‘Is there anyone I could call for you? I don’t like to leave you all alone after what’s happened today.’
Lucie felt a gentle pressure on her lower back. Tommy ushered her through the door into the apartment. She looked at him and shook her head again, keen to explain that he’d made a mistake. She opened her mouth to speak but her throat was dry as Death Valley.
‘Lost your voice? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised with all that dust. Lordy, what is this world coming to? I never thought I’d live to see such a day.’
He reached for the door handle and drew it towards him. With one foot on the threshold he hesitated, seemed to change his mind and opened the door again.
‘You take care, Miss Gillespie. I’ll see you tomorrow. And if you need anything meantime, you know where I am.’ He smiled and touched one finger to his cap then closed the door.
Lucie stood and stared like she’d never seen a door before.
4
It was early evening before Diane would let him out of her sight. She’d been tearful all day, crying and clinging to him since she got back from the hairdressers, her hair uncut and uncoloured. The news had interrupted the classical music station that Ronaldo’s clients favoured. Apparently Diane hadn’t heard it right away, with her head under a shower. She said she’d realised something awful must have happened when the stylist abandoned her halfway through her shampoo.
Diane had asked for her hair, still soapy and wet, to be wrapped in a towel while she called him. She’d tried his offices, all of them, but there were no calls getting through. Networks were crashing right, left and centre. No matter how many times she dialled, the response was the same frustrating ‘We are unable to connect your call.’
So she’d rushed back here and found him glued to the TV.
He hadn’t expected such a hysterical reaction. At least, not once she knew he’d never made it into the office. She didn’t question the migraine that had forced him to turn back before he’d driven a mile. He’d been feigning headaches for months now, a plausible excuse for changes to his routine.
It was her reaction to the deaths that surprised him. He’d expected her to be frightened and emotional until she knew he was safe, but how could anyone shed so many tears for complete strangers? Sure, Diane supported all the bleeding-heart charities, like other women in their social circle, but he hadn’t realised how genuinely troubled she was by the plight of those less fortunate.
Every so often, just when he thought she was calming down, some new footage on screen would set her off again. If he heard one more anguished wail of ‘Oh, those poor, poor people’ he would go mad. Normally he never tired of hearing her honeysuckle voice and her Southern Belle accent, but he’d had enough tearful outbursts for one day.
Early reports were tentative, but as news came in of each new flight disaster, every finger in the media pointed towards a terrorist attack.
‘Terrorists,’ Diane had wailed. ‘In this country? How did that happen? I thought we were safe. Didn’t you believe we were safe?’
He’d folded her into his arms, wrapped the cashmere blanket tightly round her shoulders and petted her like a fretting child. ‘Yes, I did, my darling. We all did, but those bastards will stop at nothing to bring down Western civilisation. Forgive my language, but those damn terrorists make me so angry.’
Finally, she’d fallen asleep on the sofa where they’d spent the day and he was free to make the necessary phone calls. He wouldn’t rest until he knew all loose ends had been tied up, nice and tidy, just the way he liked them.
‘Well?’ he demanded, the moment the connection was made.
‘Man! What a day! Have you seen the news?’
‘Of course I’ve seen the news.’
‘Can you believe these fuckin’ terrorists, man? Right here on American soil?’
He let the guy rant a bit more then interrupted. ‘Did you get the job done?’
‘Chill out! I got the job done. But man, you owe me. Big time.’
He’d expected as much. ‘Why would that be?’
‘Because, when we made our deal, nobody knew today was gonna be like the day Kennedy got shot, only worse. Don’t you watch TV, man?’
‘From what I saw on TV, I would have thought your job was a piece of cake. How hard can it be when every person on the sidewalk is staring at the sky? Not a single witness. I should be paying you less than we agreed, not more.’
‘Fuck that. Did you even see that dust cloud? I could’ve killed the wrong woman.’
‘Did you?’
The guy didn’t answer. Probably treating it as a stupid question.
‘Did you get the proof I asked for?’
‘Yeah, I got proof. So when do I get my money?’
‘You’ll get it.’
‘When? I got bills to pay.’
He tried not to imagine what kind of bills this lowlife would have to pay. ‘I said you’ll get it. Maybe even a bonus. Once I see the proof.’
‘I already told you. I got the proof. Okay?’ The guy was starting to raise his voice. Not good.
‘Okay. I hear you. Same bench in Central Park. Tomorrow. Same time as before.’ He paused. All he could hear at the other end of the line was street noise. ‘You listening?’
‘Tomorrow. Same park. Same bench. Same time. I got it. I ain’t stupid, man.’
‘That’s why we’re doing business. You start getting stupid, you stop getting paid.’
‘Hey, how do I know you’ll show up? It’s crazy in Manhattan. What if Central Park’s shut tomorrow?’
‘Trust me, Central Park will be open. All you have to worry about is getting there on time and following instructions. You got that?’
‘Okay, okay. Just tell me what to do. I need that money.’
‘Wait until
no one else is around. Make sure you do. Then, walk by the bench, drop the key and keep walking. Go around the Bethesda Fountain and come back. The next time you walk by the bench, there’ll be a styrofoam sandwich box sitting on it. Your money will be inside, under the sandwich. And we’ll be done.’
‘Can you make it a pastrami on rye?’ The dude laughed a deep rumble, then said, ‘Boss, you mentioned a bonus?’
‘You’ll get your bonus.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, extra pickle on the pastrami.’
He terminated the call, put his cell phone beside the others in his briefcase and locked it.
Diane was awake when he got back into the snug. The TV was still on, but showing new footage.
‘Honey,’ she cried, ‘where were you?’
‘Right next door. Had some calls to make.’
‘Number Seven’s just collapsed.’
He looked at the antebellum clock on the mantelpiece. Twenty after five. American Airlines Flight 11 had taken off just before eight in the morning. He did a quick calculation. Ten hours of terror, just as predicted.
Supper was light, Diane claiming she had ‘no appetite whatsoever’. He felt it appropriate to feign lack of hunger too. He could always grab a snack from the fridge later, when the cook and maid had left for the night.
Diane rose from the table, pausing to kiss his forehead as she passed on the way to their bedroom. ‘I’m quite exhausted. It’s just too sad. All those poor, poor people!’
Sighing, he stood and took her in his arms. ‘Try to have a good night’s sleep, my darling. Perhaps tomorrow things won’t look so bleak and we can start to think about how we can help.’
She rewarded his patience with a teary smile. ‘You’re such a good man. Thank God you’re safe.’
He hugged her tightly. Then, his arm around her shoulder, directed her towards the door. ‘Goodnight, my love. Sleep well.’
She stopped on the threshold. ‘I am so grateful my daddy didn’t live to see this day. Everything he worked for turned to dust.’
